


Capital Offence

by windandwaves



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Case Fic, Doctor John, Eventual Romance, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Romance, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandwaves/pseuds/windandwaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Before you start reading, you should be aware that this fic is basically my own modern Sherlock Holmes AU. This means the characters’ looks, as well as their behaviour, feelings, thoughts and opinions aren’t completely identical to either ACD Holmes or BBC Sherlock, even though both have inspired me a lot. For example, the Sherlock of this fic is a lot less abrasive than the one of the TV series. I think I should also note right here that the Sherlock and John of this fic look a lot more similar to the BBC versions (for instance: Sherlock has curly hair) than to the canon versions as they are usually depicted in illustrations.</p>
<p>This is the first fanfiction I have ever written, so please give kudos and comment if you’ve enjoyed reading.</p>
<p>And lastly: this fic hasn’t been betaed or brit-picked, and as English isn’t my first language, there might be some mistakes. If you find any glaring ones, you’re welcome to tell me so I can fix them.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Capital Offence

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, you should be aware that this fic is basically my own modern Sherlock Holmes AU. This means the characters’ looks, as well as their behaviour, feelings, thoughts and opinions aren’t completely identical to either ACD Holmes or BBC Sherlock, even though both have inspired me a lot. For example, the Sherlock of this fic is a lot less abrasive than the one of the TV series. I think I should also note right here that the Sherlock and John of this fic look a lot more similar to the BBC versions (for instance: Sherlock has curly hair) than to the canon versions as they are usually depicted in illustrations.
> 
> This is the first fanfiction I have ever written, so please give kudos and comment if you’ve enjoyed reading.
> 
> And lastly: this fic hasn’t been betaed or brit-picked, and as English isn’t my first language, there might be some mistakes. If you find any glaring ones, you’re welcome to tell me so I can fix them.

Chapter 1

It’s a Saturday evening at the end of April, and John Watson is walking home through the streets of Soho from an early evening dinner he’s had with Danny Stamford, an old colleague from an earlier working place. They still meet from time to time to refresh their acquaintance, but despite that, they aren’t particularly close.

While winding his way past the people filling the narrow streets, John deeply breathes in the spring air, which has taken on an earthy taste again, similar to in the morning. Just like everyone else John has enjoyed the sunlight of one of the first summerly warm days in the year, but now the coolness of the hour after sunset feels refreshing on his skin.

In front of an alleyway he slows down his steps for a moment, before deciding to take a shortcut.

The darkness of the passage under a Georgian house engulfs him for a short amount of time, and then releases him into the dim light of a narrow, cobbled lane which, after approximately twenty metres, turns sharply to the right and out of John’s view.

At the bend another alley branches off to the left, and at this juncture, slightly to the right, John sees the figure of a man who is looking down the part of the lane John can’t see.

Alerted by the sound of the approaching footsteps, the man turns around, facing John.

The stranger’s probably in his late twenties, a handful of years younger than John himself.

A long grey coat, which seems to be woven out of a natural thread, reaches down over his knees and falls lightly around his legs. Being very slender and a few centimetres taller than John, who himself is of medium height, it suits him extraordinarily well.

Dark curls fall over his forehead and dance around his temples and ears, while the dawn bathes his fair skin in a blue light, which matches with the shimmer of his eyes.

“Look at that window! The way they sit - that doesn’t look normal,” the man says with an agitated voice.

John’s gaze follows the outstretched hand of the stranger down the lane to a window in the basement of one of the houses on the left side. The lower sash is drawn upwards as far as it goes, granting a view at what lies behind, without reflections of light on glass in-between.

A wooden chair stands with its back to the window. In it a person sits with their upper body held absolutely ramrod straight, but with their head slumped forwards and slightly to the left in an awkward angle.

John watches for a few seconds: the silhouette doesn’t move.

“You’re right. There’s definitely something wrong. Maybe they’ve had a stroke or something. Maybe we can still help,” John says rapidly, setting himself in motion. “We need to take a closer look. Come!”

John’s steps on the cobblestones together with the stranger’s lighter ones reverberate through the empty lane as they run towards the window. When there’s only a short distance left and they’re already slowing down, instead of taking the last few steps, John feels himself abruptly freeze in place.

The woman does not merely sit in the chair.

Her arms and legs are tied to it with adhesive tape. Her upper body is bound to the back with thick ropes. Strands have loosened themselves out of the silver slide in her brown hair, some have tangled themselves on her shoulder and one hangs down messily next to the left side of her face.

The back of the room lies in darkness; no movements or noises of anyone else present can be heard.  
John looks to his right to meet the stranger’s gaze.

“She’s been bound…” The words leave John’s mouth of their own volition, his voice sounding breathless, affected by their sprint and by the shock that has just run through his body.

Although the stranger appears to be relatively composed, signs of shock are plainly visible in his face too. He seems to be about to say something, but John gets ahead of him, “We need to climb in.”

“Try to touch the window as little as possible. There might be evidence,” the stranger warns.

With a short nod John, albeit careful to keep his balance with his hands on the bricks of the wall, and not on the window itself, quickly climbs onto the ledge, then lets himself slide down to the floor on the other side.

He goes round to the front of the chair, but, as the light is now coming from behind, it’s difficult to make out anything clearly.

“Can you find a light switch?” John asks the stranger, who has followed him.

Swiftly, the other man goes to the door of the room, tucks part of his coat sleeve down over his hand and turns the switch without leaving any fingerprints on it.

Immediately bright, harsh light fills the room and falls on the figure in the chair in front of them.

The woman is obviously dead. The skin of her face has taken on a pale, yellowish tone, and the purple of livor mortis is already creeping up her hands.

Curiously, the left sleeve of her blouse has been turned up to the upper arm. Looking at the bare skin of her arm, John can spot the answer as to why: two puncture marks caused by needles are visible in the inside of her elbow.

Her head has slumped to the side, as they’ve already discovered from outside, but now it’s become possible to also take a look at her face: her eyelids are closed, but the peaceful impression this fact might have been able to create is destroyed by the piece of tape over her mouth, sealing it shut to prevent her to cry for help.

She’s wearing no jewellery apart from the slide in her hair, even though her clothes are expensive looking. Therefore, the pin, which has been stuck through the fabric of her black trousers, catches the eye even more. It is there in order to hold a sheet of paper in place, which has been laid in her lap.

John silently reads what has been printed on it: “Justice was done. A murderer is now dead. The law is insufficient in this country, therefore, real justice could not have been obtained without offending it.”

“Oh my God,” John whispers.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m okay. Don’t worry. How are you? Are you alright?” John takes a searching look at the face of the other man, who is standing beside him in front of the chair with the dead body in it.

“I’m alright,” the stranger reassures him.

Then, sliding his hand into one of his coat pockets and pulling out his mobile, he adds, explaining his intention, “I’m going to call the police.”

As the stranger types and lifts his phone to his ear, John’s gaze falls on the other man’s hands: they are very elegant, with long, fine fingers.

The call is picked up on the other end of the line, and, after it has been referred, the stranger answers the operator’s questions in an astoundingly precise, factual and calm, though by no means emotionally detached, manner.

Finally, he finishes the call and puts the phone back into his coat pocket before directing a questioning gaze towards John. “You are a medical professional, aren’t you?”

The surprise that hits John must be visible on his face. “What makes you think that?”

“Your initial reaction. Your first thought was about maybe being still able to help the person. Additionally, your fingernails are meticulously clean, just like the rest of your hands, and they are cut quite short. You also seem to deal quite well with stressful situations and gruesome sights. So I’d guess that you work in an A&E department of a hospital.”

“You are right. I’m a doctor specialised in emergency medicine, and I work in the A&E of Saint Lucy’s Hospital.” John pauses for a second, then adds, trying to bring his amazement into words, “I’ve never met someone who observes, and not only that, draws conclusions as well as you just did.”

“Well, I could have been wrong. It wasn’t definite, just probable. But, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a beat of silence between them before the stranger begins speaking again, “I’d say she’s been dead for half an hour at least. What do you think?”

“Well, there’s livor mortis already, but no rigor mortis. So, yes, between half an hour and an hour is likely. I’m no forensic pathologist though.”

“Do you have any idea about the poison?”

“Sorry, but are you asking just out of curiosity, or do you maybe have an occupation related to solving crimes?”

The stranger gives a short acknowledging smile to John. “You are not that unobservant too. I work as a consulting detective for the police.”

“A consulting detective?”

“That means I’m not a regular police detective. Instead, I get called in and take part in the investigations if a case is suited for my methods.”

“That sounds unusual. I mean, I’ve heard that the police sometimes consult experienced, already retired former detectives, or experts of a certain field, but that is not what you do, right?”

“Yes, my strength is not that I’m an expert in one special field, for example in forensics, but that I’m able to look at a person or a crime scene, and then draw conclusions from little details, which others either don’t usually pay attention to, or do pay attention to while I use additional methods.

I depend a lot upon my observational powers, which I’ve acquired and trained over the years, but I’ve also studied Criminal Investigation in Preston, and I need that specialised knowledge as well.”

“Do you think they will call you in on this case?”

“Maybe. Anyway, I cannot help thinking about what might have happened. And if my impression’s right, you are wondering too.”

John nods affirmatively, so the stranger continues, “It’s unlikely that one person alone was able to subdue her and bind her to the chair. So we can assume that at least two people acted together.

If we go by the sheet, then someone wanted to take revenge. And they thought they were justified in doing so.

As there are two puncture wounds, it may be possible that two different drugs were administered. The first could have been a barbiturate, possibly out of mercy, to not cause her agony. They could have killed her with that alone, but if they’ve loosely oriented themselves on the execution methods practised in the US, they‘ve added a second drug, maybe potassium chloride; that’s relatively easy to obtain. At least one of them has access to lethal drugs and is able to puncture a vein, which makes it probable that it was someone who is working in medicine.”

At the last few words John has to look at the body of the dead woman in the chair again, his gaze resting first on her face, then further down on the two puncture wounds in her elbow. The thought that it might have been someone of his own profession had occurred to him already, but to have it spoken out by someone else makes it much more real. He feels a slight shudder running through his body.

An understanding voice comes from beside him. “You wouldn’t do something like that yourself, would you?”

John looks back up to meet the stranger’s eyes.

“No.

I mean, she seems to have killed someone herself if what’s written on the sheet is true. And it probably was someone who was close to her murderers. I can understand to a certain degree that one might feel rage in such a situation. But if I try to picture myself with a needle for a lethal injection in hand… I cannot imagine myself doing that.

I help people who are unpleasant or aggressive every day. Sometimes it’s nerve grating. On top of that, there are dark things some of my patients might have done I know nothing about. Still, every human being deserves to live. And in that belief I do my work.”

During the whole time John has spoken, the stranger’s gaze hasn’t strayed away from him. And now, as John lifts his eyes up to the stranger’s again, punctuating his statement, the other man captivates them with his own.

“If I’d be offered a case in the US, and it would be possible for the culprit to later face the death penalty - I wouldn’t take it. I’d feel ill knowing somebody is executed whom I helped the police bring to trial.”

For a few moments John’s and the stranger’s eyes stay locked in silent understanding. It’s not necessary for either of them to say anything more.

Finally, the stranger breaks the gaze. “We need to go out to direct the police officers.”

By the entrance of the apartment the stranger picks the bunch of keys from the hook and puts it into his coat pocket, so they are able to slide the door shut behind them. They walk through the hall and out onto the pavement. Since they’ve met in the alleyway on the opposite side of the house, the light has taken on the dark blue shade of the last minutes of dusk, before only grey and black are left.

As he turns his head to the left and down the street, John spots an approaching police car.

“We will have to wait until they’ve secured the crime scene, and the necessary backup arrives. Then someone will take our statements,” the stranger explains to John while the car halts at the kerb, and three police officers, two men and a woman, climb out. After the stranger has handed them the keys and briefly informed them, one of the two male, and the female officer go to the flat, whilst the third officer returns to the police car.

The stranger directs his attention back to John. “Do you have far from here?”

“I live in the Mile End.”

“That’s quite far from Saint Lucy’s Hospital.”

“Yes it is. I’m searching for a flat more near to it, but that’s not easy with London’s current rents.”

“Would you maybe be willing to share a flat?”

“You mean with you?”

“Yes.”

John lets that sink in for a moment, then asks, “Do you already have something in mind?”

“Yes, a couple days ago a colleague of mine who knew that I’m searching for a bigger flat has met an elder lady who’s planning to rent out a flat in the same house she herself lives in. My colleague took the dates from her and later gave them to me. I looked the house up on Google Earth out of curiosity, but I can’t afford the flat on my own. The elder lady hadn’t hired an estate agent yet at that time, and she might still not have by now. So it would still be worth a try phoning her. Otherwise, we’ll have to contact the agent.”

“What’s the address?”

“221 B Baker Street.”

“That’d be perfect to reach Lucy’s.”

“Yes, it would be. You are interested then?”

“Yes, definitely.”

A thought suddenly occurs to John. With an underlying hearty laugh he says, “We’re just planning to rent a flat together and haven’t even introduced each other yet.”

Infected, the stranger’s face splits into a smile too. His blue eyes sparkling from laughing, he reaches his hand out to John.

Taking it, John can feel the contrast of long and slim, albeit not breakable, fingers against his own.

“Sherlock Holmes. But you can call me Sherlock.”

“John, John Watson.”

Their hands stay together for another moment, then they part, and Sherlock asks, “Shall I try to call the lady tomorrow morning, then?”

“Yes, please do so. Shall I give you my number?”

“Yes, that’d be good.”

Another police car arrives, and so they’ve just enough time left to exchange their phone numbers before they’ve got to separate in order to give their statements to a different police officer each.

It takes some time until John has given his account and answered all questions the officer has. In the meantime the place has filled with people: police officers tasked with preventing unauthorized persons from entering the cordoned off area, bystanders trying to at least catch a glimpse of what’s going on, and people in overalls.

John scans the busy crowd, searching for Sherlock. He spots him standing outside of the area which has been secured, right next to the police tape, talking to a middle aged man and a woman around John’s own age. Both of them are in plain clothes, so John suspects them to be the leading officers of the investigation.

By now the night has taken over completely, but as the little group is standing under the light of a street lamp over their heads, John’s able to take a closer look. The man’s a few centimetres taller than Sherlock and has short brown hair. The woman, on the other hand, is the smallest of the three, and has her black hair bound up in a ponytail. She seems to be of South Asian descent. Each of the two gives off a friendly and competent impression.

The group ends their conversation, and Sherlock walks directly over to John, whom he has probably already noticed while still talking with the police detectives.

Stopping in front of John, Sherlock tells him, “They’ve taken me in on the investigations. I’ll still have time to call the landlady tomorrow morning though. Once I’ve got news, I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They both fall silent, looking at each other.

Even though John is sure the detective is happy and excited to take part in the case’s investigations, when he resumes speaking after a second, there’s regret in his voice. “I’ve got to go, join them inside now.”

“Yeah, I understand,” John replies. “Goodbye then.”

“Goodbye.”

Sherlock turns around, lifts the tape over his head, and walks over to the tent, where protective clothing is put on and off by every person entering and exiting the crime scene.

John somehow has the urge to walk after him, see how the investigation progresses, and watch him do his work. But that’s impossible. It’s only right that a random person can’t just be allowed to take part in a police investigation.

Remembering himself of the fact that he’ll soon hear from Sherlock again, probably already tomorrow morning, John brings himself out of his thoughts.

He turns away from the restricted area and starts on his way home.

**Author's Note:**

> The following chapters aren’t written yet, but I have the rest of the story roughly thought out. So if the first chapter is received well, I will continue writing and posting.  
> Edit: Thanks for your kudos and subscriptions/bookmarks so far. The next chapter will probably be up in a few weeks.


End file.
